Nyctophobia
by BoiledMermaid
Summary: Roxas questions the commitment behind 'forever', sparking up on his living room floor to help cope with the black hole rotting away his insides.


My first one. I hope you like it. These events all take place within the time frame of about two days.

* * *

><p>It's the incessant flicking, the click click click, sounding like an empty barrel, like another warning, that draws her attention. His brittle bones resist him; fight to escape him, his paper skin. Fingers clumsy and stiff, he struggles, fumbles, lights up another cigarette, hands trembling to shield his feeble flame, like the ghosts residing behind his eyes play tricks on him, pinch out his light while he's distracted, worlds away, gazing at the spaces in between. Greasy-haired and bruise-skinned, a bundle of checkers and stripes, a soft fabric fort he's built high around him, split-skin knuckles clawing and grasping at folded edges and sliding defences.<p>

Roxas doesn't speak much these days; she thinks maybe his voice sounds like 3 a.m. phone calls, all shudders and stutters and heavy breaths. All secrets and ethanol fairytales, not a trace of coherency left in those lavender veins.

Satisfied, he rolls his cigarette along the pressed line of his mouth, pink lip blush draining in favour of this pale pallor, this spectre chic he models so beautifully. Roxas has rings around his eyes the colour of a winter dawn, pupils blown out like fucking black holes, pits and cliffs composing masterpiece architecture across his too-young face.

He might be watching a documentary; the vague smile on his face says he doesn't give a fuck either way, spinning some new course of pills between his index finger and thumb, holding the container up against the light of a deep-sea dive.

Roxas who's so fucking disenchanted with life, who measures his days by the test pattern interrupting his scheduled programming, comforted by the roar of white noise and the blinking of the stand-by light.

Kairi stays by the countertop, watching him watching her, pinned by her reflection on his screen. Blank eyes turning to tear holes in her, she offers him a hesitant smile, this smothering atmosphere she comes to associate with Roxas and his mood shifts baring down on her shoulders. Awkward and uncomfortable, and Sora is still shambling around in his room, seeking out a hoodie and yelling apologies through the paper thin walls.

"_You look uncomfortable_," he observes, and despite his decomposing appearance, his voice is still liquid gold, deceptively soothing she breathes a sigh of relief. She's saying "Not at all," fighting back a grimace, the sight of him smearing a crimson streak across his cheek with the back of his hand, the corner of his mouth a vicious shade of red against such pasty skin. Tiny circular scars litter his wrists, his palms, and as he takes a deep pull from his cigarette, prying it from his lips between his forefinger and thumb, she recognises his weapon of choice.

Uneasy, glancing around their kitchenette, eager for a topic to distract them both from a tension she's not entirely sure either of them are responsible for, she sees his medication, neat little rows of colourful little containers, some with bold lettering, boasting his name across the room, another with stickers of starfish and ice cream bars, no doubt Sora's attempt at downplaying the sinister appearance of so many tiny little pills.

"_How's therapy going? You're looking well_," she blatantly lies for lack of anything else to say, and Roxas, one well-versed with sarcasm and irony even before his accident, he sniggers under his breath, the sound almost lost as Sora bursts through his door, a bundle of creased fabric clutched between his fingers, victorious, a beaming smile stretching his face, gradually fading as he visibly calculates the close proximity between Roxas and Kairi. Roxas is still mulling over an answer for Kairi's previous inquiry, despite the obvious ulterior motive behind it. Turning to shamble his way back towards his pile of blankets he's saying, "_Therapy's great, A fine improvement, wouldn't you agree_," but he's not expecting a response, studies his own reflection in the daylight glare from the screen frequently enough to know how his body collapses around the star growing within his chest cavity.

As if it reads his thoughts, a thrumming pain burns through every nerve ending in his body, clutching at his chest, breathing heavily through a hot/cold pressure, Sora's voice cuts across, digs him out momentarily. "_Rox, we're heading out for the afternoon. You'll be alright, right?_"

Sora curling his arm across Kairi's shoulders, her petite frame burrowing into his side, eyes cautiously fixed on Roxas' awkward shape, wary of the electric atmosphere humming around him, unsure as to the stability of Roxas' fragmented mind and he would laugh, she turns to Sora for shelter, as though he could protect her, as though Roxas himself could fucking protect her from the demons that claw their way into his waking life, up his throat, through his ribs, tearing at his seams for the slightest sight of freedom.

"_You got any plans?_" Sora's manoeuvring her towards the door, keys jingling within his palm, eyes scanning the room for any potential hazards, resting for several seconds too long on the corners, goosebumps raising along his arms.

The door swings open; a solid bar of daylight cutting across the darkened interior of their apartment, curtains yanked shut, Roxas painting black acrylic over the smaller windows by the hob. The yellow day glow framing Roxas within it's boundaries, and for the first time, Sora thinks Roxas is shrinking, finally seeing him swallowed by his own madness, dwarfed by the shadows of the room, they loom about him, and Sora closes the door softly behind him, slowly, so as to not to alarm Kairi, but he thinks maybe she's already seen it, caught the trace of movement over Roxas' shoulder, lingering in his bedroom door. And he steps away with Roxas' response echoing in his ears, "_I think Naminé's coming over._"

Kairi doesn't slow her pace until they're two blocks away.

* * *

><p>Naminé visits the apartment sometimes, often while Sora's at work, his intense dislike for the very idea of her often repelling her from Roxas. She sits at the corner of the sofa, all demure and pretty, porcelain and perfect, hands folded neatly in her lap. Calm and collected, her white cotton summer dress pooling about her sides.<p>

Roxas is pacing a grove in cigarette burned floorboards, trembling fingers pressing patterns against his temples. Eyes downcast, he's finding it very difficult to look at her, stealing glances through the blank television screen, her reflection gazing lovingly back, a warm, simple smile gracing her features.

He snatches his pill bottle from the pocket of his pants, cautiously regarding the label, spinning the container in his palm, eyes still skipping from the blurring letters to her light expression. She's stepping off the sofa, white folds cascading around her ankles, almost fucking blinded by the angelic glow, he's certainly distracted, brought back by her cool hands around his own, prying desperate fingers from around the bottle, she's whispering, "_Roxas, I do wish you weren't so mad,_" and she's smiling. Thin, nimble fingers sliding the container back into his pocket, hands seeking out his own, leading him towards the sofa.

Wide, terrified eyes transfixed on her, he doesn't think he could speak if he wanted to, panic clawing its way up his throat like bile.

She places his head on her knees, tiny hands combing through his summer straw hair, her nails a little too sharp to place his mind at ease, his heart hammering it's way through his chest, he's clutching at the pain with heavy iron fists to a soundtrack of her whispering voice and it's crackling lullabies. The ends of her golden ribbons of hair trail ticklish patterns along his cheek, she's leaning over him, studying his jaded face, rubbing her fingertips over the dark blotches beneath his eyes, the open cuts festering at the corners of his mouth, she's whispering, "_You used to be so pretty, Roxas_", dragging the jagged edge of a fingernail along the soft shallows of his cheek, a tiny red line documenting its journey, she's saying, "_I love you._"

But he hears undertones of "_No one else could possibly love you while you're like this._"

With his nose pressed against the cloth bunching between her thighs, the trace scent of smoke and night air is not one he can overlook. "_We could be together forever, you'know. Like a fairytale. Romeo and Juliet_," she's gushing, forcing him upright, staring concentration through his eyes, and he can feel the capillaries pulsate and suddenly her voice is the onset of an intense migraine.

"_There's no such thing as forever_," he's grumbling, not daring to break the eye contact, gnarled hands curling around her bare forearms, he's thinking this is how the movie sequences look, inches from her mouth he thinks maybe he should kiss her, leaning close, a chill freezing his joints, her eyes watch his mouth as she speaks to interrupt their scene, breathy whispers and hush hush sounds, she's saying, "_Tell me you want to stay with me forever._"

* * *

><p>Sometimes Axel visits, pours his awkward limbs across their sofa, all languid and slow-moving grace, moving like a predator and Roxas retreats to the floorboards in accepting silence, haunted eyes fixed and tracing the tiny creases that form between acid coloured eyes.<p>

And they'll often sit in silence, because Axel has, for the most part, run out of accusations, although the occasional burst of inspiration finds him shuddering and raging behind the peephole of their apartment door at fucking dawn, an ethanol fog glazing over his eyes, finger jabbing incessantly at a doorbell Roxas thinks sounds like the screech of rubber on tarmac.

He'd never vocalize the thought, lips pursed around an unlit cigarette, knotted hands resting on his knees; it conjures far too many graphic scenes for Axel's deteriorating temper to process peacefully.

Axel who smells like smoke and petrol and accidents he'd never understand, although their consequences force a toll on his youthful face.

He's leaning forward, the close proximity holding Roxas hostage within a green-eyed glare. Skin smelling of incense and cheap smokes, rolling his tongue along his china white teeth, saying something like, "_All this?_" a sweeping gesture, a hand twisted like tree roots, "_This is your fault._" Because Roxas' madness is not self-contained. It has tainted the entire apartment, and Axel, familiar with its damage, sees it for what it is.

And he's sucking back the soothing sensation of a nicotine kiss, eyes not once leaving Roxas.

Axel has intimidation and frustration so deeply ingrained in his character, he occasionally forgets to smother his moods, allows them to burn up instead of snuffing them out, they flare up behind chemical coloured eyes, fizzle to the tips of wild hair, ignite his words with a double edge, leaving his face devoid of expression. Quick hands move in Roxas' peripheral, but he's studied the documentaries, preferring them to human interaction these days, knows to not turn your back to a feral animal. Axel's got the smell of blood in his nostrils.

Those hands, fingertips calloused and burned, skin blackened and scarred, pressing these soft, reassuring prints along his hairline, sweeping the flaxen coloured strands behind his ear, leaning closer still, Roxas breathing in the smell of starvation lingering on Axel's breath.

His silence demands an answer and as always Roxas proves unable to provide, his eyes frosting over, staring but not seeing. And Axel laughs, this bright burst of expression, colourful and desirous and alien to Roxas' ears.

It inspires a fear in him, a remembrance, and he can't bear to look at that cut diamond grin, the smile of children's illustrations, of nightmares and hallucinations and the blackened spots of Roxas' history.

"_You look like shit_," Axel's saying, harmonised by the echo of his own laughter, shrinking behind a fog of his own smoke. Roxas folds back in on himself, not so familiar with blatant honesty these days, drawing comfort instead from Sora's cotton wool half truths.

Axel's reaching for him again, the glowing tip of a dying cigarette clutched between his claws, pressing the red hot end into the pale skin of Roxas' hand, singed skin and no reaction, Roxas blankly studying the curious look Axel sets on him.

Roxas thinks Axel is as mad as he is, even more so. The colourful, attractive kind of insanity people write books about, idolize and encourage as quirky or unusual among the humdrum depression of the average Joe, but Roxas has seen the dark black that bleeds into those venomous green eyes when Axel loses his temper, understands it for the blatant display of instability Roxas sometimes recognises in himself.

Axel is manipulative, an abusive sociopath in his despair, smiling greetings at Sora, bumping fists, baring teeth, he always had the most disarming smile. And Sora leaves, he always does, Roxas trapped in the sights of madman, Axel flexing his knuckles and stretching, eyes scanning the room, the smile not once dripping from his face.

He often finds an unavoidable appeal in the collection of medication Sora insists on displaying beneath the kitchen windows, all rainbow coloured and appetising and still Roxas can't bring himself to indulge. Axel, however, doesn't share the sentiments, unscrewing a cap, tipping the colourful little capsules into a trembling palm, rattling their sugar casings and he's laughing, this light breezy sound, "_I haven't slept in fucking days, Roxas. But look who I'm talking to._"

Roxas met Axel during their first year of college, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic, ready to conquer the world. A miserable mid-winter, the sky a lazy shade of grey, and Axel's seeking shelter beneath the bleachers rolling a spliff between fingertips coloured blue and purple bruise in the chill, fumbling and awkward, growing increasingly frustrated with the numb uncoordinated disobedience of his fingers, swearing a literary masterpiece, inventing words colourful enough to attract Roxas' attention, Roxas who's coming down off an alcohol fuelled high, boasting an empty head, emptier pockets, preying on the kindness of strangers.

He crouches under the structure, making his way over, Axel's eyes drawn to him, this appealing, inviting shade of emerald, a contradiction to the character Roxas now knows hides behind them. But he held out a gloved hand expectantly, wordlessly, rolling the fabric away from the warm skin beneath, Axel watching the simple movement with an explicable hostility which Roxas soon comes to understand is never quite far from his surface, Axel and his intimidating undertones, his foul temper, apocalyptic mood swings that rule his behaviour at the best of times.

They sit and smoke until the steam between them blurs the harsher angles of Axel's bared teeth, his glinting grin, until awkward introductions are suggested, Roxas hesitantly offering a hand, a name, Axel begrudgingly surrendering the same. And over the years, drunk dials at 4 a.m. late night drives filled with the kind of secrets that make no sense when examined by daylight, take out on Fridays, Axel's mom's home-cooking on Sundays, somewhere along the line, they bonded.

And while Roxas' confession of a relationship with Naminé proved a slight bump in the road, it was barely noticeable compared to what lay further along the line.

After his accident, Axel barely bothered disguising his hostility behind those acid-toned eyes.

Axel rarely lingers in the apartment, occasionally passing off unsealed cartons of cigarettes, the result of some misplaced sense of responsibility he'd rather not address. More often, greedily pocketing baggies filled with prescription sleeping pills, placing his finger on his lips, gesturing for Roxas' silence, laughing himself hoarse.

He'll stand in the doorway, eyes bouncing about the neglected furniture, the empty bottles, fast food wrappings like colourful crepe paper strewn about the floorboards. Cigarette resting at the corner of his mouth, grit teeth grinding the filter into fine paste, his eyes are raking the corners of the living room, hesitantly scanning the dimensions of the door to Roxas' room.

He looks anxious, bouncing on the balls of his feet, he says something that sounds like "_I wish you wouldn't have her here_", but Roxas is fumbling with the damp cardboard of his gifted smokes, devotedly ignoring anything Axel has left to offer him.

Axel who hates and loves and misses and feels everything Roxas is devoid of tenfold.

* * *

><p>"<em>Roxas, Your therapist called. He said it's been a while.<em>" Sora's only pretending to half care, stacking and restacking shelves of dishes and candles and sharp objects stashed behind cereal boxes, more often than not, Roxas' inquisitive hands seeking out a blade, a needle, a shard of glass to familiarise with the consistency of his skin.

No response, this settling silence between them is becoming a comforting replacement for human contact and feeble conversation. Another cigarette abandoned, neglected by the hob, discarded in a lapse of memory, Roxas having left it behind, presumably to continue on and locate another, and Sora's sweeping it into a black bag, casting a wary eye across the living room, and it has been quite some time since he's noticed Roxas. Actually noticed him, not a passing glance at bundle of mismatched fabrics, Roxas wasting away beneath his clothes, but seeing the grey lavender tint to his skin, how the corners of his mouth scab over a rusty brown colour, the red spiderweb decoration ruining the whites of his eyes.

He recalls one night, collapsing exhausted on the sofa, one arm thrown haphazardly over his eyes, the familiar hum of white noise and bright lights chipping away at the corners of his vision, Roxas curled in a ball by the coffee table, eyes wide and eerie, seeking answers from the electrical hum.

And Sora's drifting in and out of consciousness, fuzzy and distant, and Roxas is saying, 'I think I'm depressed'. Warm orange glow, he's lighting another cigarette, casting long, demon shadows across the room for split seconds, and Sora swears he's sees the ghosts of Roxas' mistakes.

"_I feel like there's this like, black hole inside me_" tapping at his heart, eyes fixated on the screen, involved in his monologue, Sora thinks maybe he's addressing the ghost's that reside here, the phantoms trapped within the confines of his head. "_Not inside me, no. I feel like I exist around it._"

He'd readjust himself to observe Roxas' late night confession, and he's thinking maybe Axel's taken pity on his suffering friend, slipped him some weed to ease the voices in his mind.

"_Like I'm only here to preserve it. I feel like it's all I am._" He's not crying, no waver or gurgle to his voice, no angle to his head, poker straight posture, on alert.

"_I feel like it's chipping away at me. It's rotting me from the inside. It's like holding a black hole, It's swallowing me up._"

And Sora's fighting his nature to question, swallowing down his half-baked comfort, a pat on the shoulder, a one-armed hug, useless things he knows Roxas finds no solace in.

"_Rox, buddy, You okay?_" and Roxas is stubbing out his cigarette on varnished wood, a small stack of Polaroids littered about the surface Sora hadn't noticed before, a rainfall of ash scarring their plastic sheen.

Every bone in his rapidly deteriorating body groans with the effort of turning within the confines of his blanket cocoon, frosted blue eyes settling on Sora like seeing him for the first time, wide and unsettling, pupils black and deep and infinite, pale mouth hanging open, trying to formulate coherency, and Sora won't speak for fear of disturbing this oddly timed breakthrough.

Subconsciously rubbing at the shimmer of scar tissue decorating his hairline, he's saying, "_What happens to me then? What happens when there's nothing left for it to swallow?_"

It's a simple observation, completely devoid of emotion or concern, But Sora's still reaching for his brother, pulling him into a hug, Roxas' arms hanging useless by his sides, his jaw a fine carving of pressure along Sora's shoulder, the feeling of fine bone beneath, and he's tempted to close his eyes and settle in this struggle at a relationship, observe it for what it is, but a flash by the corner of the room sucker punches him, and he swears his saw movement.

Body tensing, slowly releasing his brother, Roxas' eyes glassy and unfocused saying "_I really need to sleep_" and Sora nods encouragingly.

Roxas doesn't sleep, hasn't for a while, but they pretend regardless.

And as the blonde sibling pulls his blankets about his face, shielding his peripheral from the corner in which the shadows seem a bit too dense, Sora let's his eyes settle on the Polaroids, their surface lit by the flickering glow of Roxas' white noise. Pictures of happier days, Sora, a bright smile, brighter eyes, Kairi, the pretty little red head curled under his arm. Axel lighting up in the corner of the frame while Roxas stands, an absolute contradiction to his current self, all summer coloured and cheerful, hand-in-hand with his bright white and blonde girlfriend, Naminé, Axel's younger sister.

"_He's not helping me._" Roxas' words drag him back to reality, his figure standing hunched and skeletal, silhouetted by the artificial glow, and Sora won't say anything, but sometimes Roxas throws an odd shadow, several limbs too many, wider shapes, softer angles, his demons circling him and whispering their nonsense in his ears.

Sora's only ever slightly alarmed by his brother's presence, turning back towards the brown paper bags stacked in rows along the countertop, he returns to his meticulous categorising of the groceries, anything to distract from Roxas and his chilling little oddities.

But the skeletal structure housing this 'black hole', it's picking its way through their apartment, its negative magnetism drawing his eyes to its victim once more. And Roxas isn't wrapped in his blankets, sharing a lot of symptoms with Axel these days.

His height suddenly emphasised by the lack weight on his body, the hard notches of cartilage throwing vicious shadows along his collar, his shoulder blades, where some stained old shirt slides down his arms. Old track pants hanging low on his hips, bare feet and bruises.

For someone so cushioned among his cloth fortress, Roxas wears an awful amount of bruising, his forearms boasting maroon hued handprints and half moon fingernail prints, his hips a dappling of old yellow and lavender.

He's reaching for a pack of smokes he'd left beside the microwave, Sora having earlier taken the liberty of disposing of its contents. Tapping his neon blue lighter along faux marble workspace, he abandons the pack wordlessly, eyes gliding up to meet Sora's, and Roxas' eyes sometimes look like a warning.

"_Rox, you said you'd try. And this new stuff, it's working out for you, right?_" Sora's grasping for where he knows Roxas lines his pill bottles. Spending many an hour studying their labels, reading all the new ways psychiatrist's figure he needs help.

He's picking up the latest, a word with too many vowels for him, Roxas' name printed out in bold text, and he won't say anything, but the pills in this container are packed too tight to rattle with the motion of him snatching them from their hiding spot.

Roxas hasn't been taking them, and almost as though sensing the revelation, Roxas turns back toward the television, stuffing his lighter back in the pocket of his pants, he's saying "_Sure. I feel fine_," but Sora doesn't miss the way his brother's eyes dart to the shadowy corners.

"_It feels just fine_," and he's tapping at the space where he hides his black hole, the growing cavity behind his rib cage.

* * *

><p>Namine's a sweep of graceful elegance throughout the battlefield of his room. Her polished fingertips tracing swirling ruins into the fine layer of dust gathering on the furniture.<p>

He is cross-legged on his mattress, thin fingers beating a masterpiece along worn denim, eager eyes devouring her every movement, the turn of her head, a fine curtain of golden strands falling about her bare shoulders.

This secret smile she aims his way, her sawn-off shotgun, she holds him hostage within the confines of his own room, his own mind.

"_Baby, how much do you love me?_" she's saying, and he misses any word beyond the first, absorbed in the depth she conveys through a dime store word like it, cheap and common, and here she is, spinning it in silver.

Distracted by the shining wet red of her mouth, she's speaking again, spinning to face him, a simple gesture worthy of fine ballet. White cotton folding around her knees as she edges her way onto his mattress, curling shimmering strands behind her ear with delicate fingers, she's saying, "_Roxas. How much do you love me?_"

He doesn't answer.

Doesn't need to.

She's folding herself into the space between his knees, but she is solid ice, an unpleasant pressure against his skin. He thinks maybe she should smell like perfume, like summer air and pastel colours, but his senses are dulling under an overwhelming stench of petrol and burning skin. She brings a dainty hand to his cheek, stroking at the scarring creeping into his hairline. Inches from her mouth, he tastes smoke on her breath, the smothering heat of fire crackling the skin of his lips.

This is all wrong; she is an improbability, an impossibility, a contradiction in herself.

This heavenly glow she radiates, a re-imagining of saints and angels and paintings he's only seen in books, but she feels like the pressure and anxiety of their dwindling ending. Like her nuclear heart will burn them both up, blackened and charred and he'll still turn to her, the corners of his mouth torn and bleeding with the effort of prying melting lips apart, and tell her she's beautiful.

She's leaning across him, hands grasping at his bed side table, her eyes rooted to his, an ocean blue mirror and no reflection. He'd kiss her, but all the secrets he's been keeping have rotted his insides, bile blistering up behind his teeth, his acid kiss ruining her pretty face.

He says nothing, and she's clutching his latest dabbling of pills, rattling the tiny plastic container, looking like children's teeth tumbling around inside. She holds it by her face, ensuring he'll see it, should he be able to tear his eyes from her for long enough. "_We could be together forever. We're meant to be._"

And he's read the words in fairytales and love notes from girls long gone, felt the devotion and desperation contained within, but hearing them now, he hears demands, a sense of urgency not relevant to love or passion, but to ticking clocks and countdowns.

She's pressing his swollen knuckles around the container, bright eyes blue and wide, ice and fire all contained within one person. He's concentrating on the feel of her skin surrounding his, frail bird bones, searching for the thrum of a pulse, but she's speaking again, honey coloured tones dragging him from his reverie, "_You and me. We take these, and we'll be together forever._"

He swallows, struggling past the lump of words unsaid, gathering in his throat, obstructing his ability to refuse her.

As if he was ever able.

"_I think I love you, sometimes_," he tries, his voice fading in and out, terrible reception and wrecked with signal interference.

Maybe she doesn't hear him, or maybe she pretends, a curtain of straw coloured hair drawing in around her expression, shielding her, but he does not miss the tiniest curl of her lip, the satisfaction that looks so alien on her features, a gesture drawn from her brother's arsenal.

Her knuckles white around the plastic container, her sole focus it's contents, and it's a bold move, but Roxas figures he's always been one for idiocy and teenage dramatics, but his hands feel like block lead by his sides, bulky and uncoordinated, lacking any of the grace he thinks she's worthy of.

But he's pressing their clammy heat against the sides of her face, eyes a wide set trap, and he thinks his silence enough to lure her in. Her skin the colour of snow drifts and winter depression, her ice cold aura easing the furious heat climbing up his spine, burning warnings into his nerve endings.

He thinks she's prettier up close, a fine masterpiece of concealed workmanship, not a join or brush stroke visible, as a sculptural study in perfection, not a visible crack or weld on the surface of her skin. But these fine works of art often built upon tragedy, and he knows she is no exception.

His mouth moves in silent imitations of maybe pleading, reasoning, but she smiles again, raising those manicured talons to his lips, pressing at the skin there, saying, "_Don't you want to be together?_" a curious crease to her brow, eyes wide and hopeful, sink holes and supernovas, and he's completely done for.

She's pressing tiny capsules between his lapse lips, the click click click as they rattle against his teeth, one by one, the sickening contact with the back of his throat. He's fighting the urge to wretch, because this is what she wants, isn't it? And fuck, he's craving cigarettes, a sudden smell of smoke bleeding through his dulling senses, like nothing exists outside of Naminé and her perfect smile, her eager hands, this Christ-light that radiates from her mouth, like every word is a step toward salvation.

And he knows he doesn't deserve it. Choking down his penance, her hands smoothing through his flaxen coloured hair, she's cooing, whispering nonsensical reassurance, lids heavy and sinking, blocking the sight of him. Cradling him within her palms.

He thinks maybe this feels like falling asleep, too tired to notice the empty container abandoned by her side, no pills left for her own end of this contract.

Thinks maybe it's been a while since he's slept. Wants to tell her he's grateful, but as always the words die on his tongue, his mouth a mass grave for confessions he's forgotten.

* * *

><p>Sora's only slightly uncoordinated, the alcohol buzz in his veins reeking havoc on his eyesight, hands fumbling and hesitating, rolling the bundle of keys against the line of his palm, the hissing of stifled giggles echoing along the corridor.<p>

Kairi folded under the safety of his arm, a dainty hand pressed against her lips, a wry smile curling her pretty mouth at the seams, the other purposely batting playfully at Sora's available hand, attempting to distract him from his task.

The door eventually gives, swinging on its hinges, but the room beyond saturated in darkness, and while Sora struggles, yanking the key from the lock, Kairi steps slowly inside, eyes drawn to the television, not even the familiar white noise buzz filling the room, throwing a ghostly glow across the furniture. She's trailing fingers along the wall, seeking out a light switch, un-nerved by Roxas' absence, familiar with his presence haunting the tiny apartment.

Sora pauses momentarily in the doorway, index and thumb massaging the bridge of his nose, fighting the promise of thrumming headaches and unsettled stomachs in the morning.

Running his fingers shakily through his hazel coloured tangle of hair, he peels his eyelids apart, taking in the sight of the room for the first time, and his mind systematically runs him through his routine, the same series of checks he makes each and every time he returns to the apartment. And currently, something seems slightly off with the entire scene.

Roxas' absence from the room itself not so unusual, but Sora is fully aware Roxas resorts to medication for anxiety and high blood pressure brought about by a recently developed and alarmingly intense fear of the dark. A phobia that often results in him leaving the television tuned to the space between channels, the blank frequencies of white noise and flickering lights.

No words and voices to confuse with the ones battling within the confines of his mind.

His eyes trace the collection of pill bottles beneath the window. Sidestepping around a confused Kairi, dreamily combing her fingers through her crimson coloured hair, lazily navigating her way towards the sofa, He's by the window, snatching up several containers, quickly surveying their contents, his counting and careful calculation suddenly broken by Kairi's curious questioning. "_These photos_," she's saying, clutching them between her polished fingers, holding them up so Sora can see from across the room, "_Why are they out?_" He hears her shuffle through the meagre pile, tiny gasps escaping the surprised 'o' of her lips with each new image. "_There's so many of Naminé, are you sure he should be allowed have these?_"

Sora freezes in the midst of his fluster, not turning to chance a glance at the corner of the room, where sometimes he thinks he's seen it linger while his eyes glaze out of focus.

"_Kai, were the lights on when you came in here?_" She's silent for several seconds, the continuous shuffle of photos as she underestimates the importance of such an insignificant question.

Kairi rarely stays nights, finds it quite hard to remain patient as Roxas' battles his fear of the dark in the a.m. Banging walls and raised voices, she thinks maybe Sora's embarrassed, or maybe he should be.

"_Roxas used to be quite good-looking_," she offers drowsily, holding an image of his fresh face, bright smile and wide blue eyes against the light, tilting it as though holographic, as though it will reveal to her the secret of his personal decay, explain the reasoning behind such a dramatic downfall.

"_Kairi. Were the lights on or off?_" and Sora's suddenly boasting a voice thick with authority, sounding a little agitated with her lack of co-operation, urgently eyeing the closed door to Roxas' room down the hallway.

She is suddenly on her feet, her actions confused by the alcohol rushing through her veins, flinging the photographs back on the coffee table, throwing her hands in the air, before bringing those sharpened fingers to rest on her hips, levelling him with an exasperated expression.

"_I don't know Sora. Off, I guess. Surely there's more important things to be worry about, like where the hell is Roxas?_" but she doesn't need to finish her sentence, Sora's fumbling, stumbling over his own feet in his rush to make his way down the hallway, knocking loudly on his brother's door.

"_Roxas! Rox, open up!_"

By the time Kairi stumbles her way along the dimly lit hallway, she is suddenly sober, achingly aware of the seriousness of the situation, her mouth dry, reluctant to lay eyes on the scene that has rendered Sora so speechless.

There's no blood, no violent struggle, Sora seating in the middle of his brother's mattress, Roxas cradled against his chest, his limbs limp and lifeless, hanging at impossible angles as Sora crushes his tiny body against him, verbal vomit babbling it's way from between his lips.

"_Rox C'mon buddy, Not now_," pulling him upright, pinching the shallow dips of his cheeks, prying his jaw apart, cramming fingers down his throat, and the sensation and situation is so fucking alien, he feels misplaced from it, eyes coming to rest on Kairi, cowering in the doorway, hands cupped over her mouth, mauve eyes wide and trembling, her whole body supported by the flimsy wooden frame.

As soon as she makes eye contact, the choked sobs escape her lips, eyes welling with tears, and this is not what he needs to see right now.

Roxas gags, a throaty retching groan, his whole body rigid for several seconds, an off white foam spilling down his chin, eyelids flickering with the effort.

Sora's swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, pressing Roxas' blonde mess of hair from the clammy grey hue of his skin, chilled and bruised and still shaking.

Sora doesn't care to count the empty containers littering the comforter around him. "_I'm so sorry, Rox. I'm so sorry. I should have noticed_," maybe he's speaking to comfort himself, maybe it's to cover the strangled gurgling sounds spilling from Roxas' mouth, every muscle in his body tense, each joint locked and cracking as Sora rearranges him across the mattress.

His face is damp, but he's coolly ignoring the issue, distracted by the crackling of a folding photograph beneath his knees.

Calling Kairi to his side, she's blindly obeying, placing a supporting hand beneath Roxas neck, a fresh onslaught of tears threatening to spill, the tremors of his seizure like trembles rattling her arms in their sockets. And Sora's holding the photograph in the air, seeking out some source of light, sightlessly grasping for the neon blue lights Roxas stashes on his night stand.

He recognises its occupants immediately, a candid shot of a casual kiss, Naminé enveloped in Roxas' arms, her blue eyes wide and startled, the beginning of a smile creasing the corner of her mouth. Roxas' hair the colour of fucking starlight and Summer, his skin with human tints to it's pigment. The many rings decorating his knuckles cause a light flare on the lens, the car behind them barely recognisable as the one he had his accident in.

Sora's placing the pieces together.

"_You stupid bastard, is that what this is about! Roxas. Roxas look at me!_" His head doesn't tilt even minutely, the rapid flutter of his lashes motionless now, but Sora drives on, angry and oblivious and ignorant of Kairi's own distress, hands still holding Roxas' head up, head bowed, thinly veiled cries bursting from her lips. "_You think leaving is going to fix any of this? You think this solves anything?_"

They fall into a silence, and for several seconds, nothing exists outside this room, not the people or the situations that led them here. Not Axel's bitter mistreatment or Kairi's feigned ignorance. Sora's own wilful insistence that Roxas has been improving, that sometimes the lights in their apartment flickered due to an electrical fault, that the bruises on Roxas arms were the result of rough-housing with his younger brother, just like they used to before Roxas wrapped his car around a stoplight.

Kairi moves to stand, gently resting Roxas' head against the sheets, petting his straw coloured hair once more, raising the back of her hand to her mouth, frantic gasping, hyperventilating, she's mumbling excuses to leave, and all Sora can do is wave her off, studying the calm expression so alien to his brother's face.

"_I'm calling an ambulance_," she's saying, as though it matters, her voice a wheezy hiss, and Sora glances up to check that she's okay, and with that single gesture, his worst fears are suddenly confirmed.

For the split second he sees her, his hands grasp his brother's, pulling the loose limb towards him, squeezing and pressing at knuckles until he feels the bone grind beneath skin, but she vanishes as suddenly as she appears, Kairi stepping right through the vision, phone cradled against her ear, eyes concerned and urgent, pressing at the cold skin of Roxas' hand, his throat, seeking out a pulse.

"_Kairi_," Sora's articulating himself carefully, considerately, not ultimately confident in what he's just seen. Clearing his throat, she covers the mouthpiece of the receiver, turning saddened eyes to him, confused by his tone.

"_Kairi, I just saw Naminé_", and he doesn't miss the colour drain from her red blotched face, her eyes suddenly rooted to his. She swallows, an audible gulp of effort, blinking slowly, replacing the phone against her ear, signalling the end of the conversation, particularly with regards this topic.

"_Don't be ridiculous, Sora. It's been two years_," nervously following his gaze towards the doorframe, breathing a sigh of relief to find it empty.

"_She's dead._"


End file.
